


Hand of Sorrow

by trinityrenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:51:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityrenee/pseuds/trinityrenee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Gendry's mother seeks help from the crown when she learns of her wasting sickness.  Jon Arryn receives her letter and begins making plans for the boy to go to the North to live his life in the service of the Starks.  As the young boy grows up, he finds he has an affinity for hitting metal with a hammer and works closely with Mikken in the Winterfell forge.  Only a bastard boy himself, who is he to argue with Arya Stark when she begins to demand he play at swords with she and her brothers?  As they grow older together, Arya learns she needs to fulfill duties set upon her since she was born, but she refuses to give up the only true friend she has ever had.  Based loosely off of the song "Hand of Sorrow" by Within Temptation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have seen / read a work of the same title on FF.net, I will admit that I have changed my original idea for this "Hand of Sorrow" idea drastically. I was simply going to completely re-vamp my original 'Hand of Sorrow' fic and post it here, but I have changed my mind and my ideas pretty severely because I like this line of ideas a bit better, personally...  
> That said, I hope you enjoy this. I will (with any luck), be updating this as well as my other Gendrya fic that I've got going currently. I have plans to finish this and the other one, I promise.

The Spider was very specific in the ways in which messages were sent to this young woman.  They passed through the hands of three different birds before even reaching Flea Bottom, and then they were exchanged twice more before being finally handed to the woman and read before her and her bastard son.  The same birds were not used twice.

Five months ago, she had requested a letter writer to write a letter for her and send it to the Red Keep.  After learning of her wasting sickness, she had worried about the fate of her seven year old son.  He was her entire world and she could not bear to know she was leaving him an orphan with nothing to what little name he had.

King Robert had ignored the message, of course, leaving it for his small council to handle like everything else he was supposed to command and deal with.  The Hand himself had been the one to receive and read the message, and the  Spider had tittered in with his advices on the matter, promising to keep the contents hidden from the rest of the small council and the queen herself.  She had never been fond of her husband's bastard children.

Flea Bottom was disgusting, as always.  Half-naked, dirty children with matted hair and rags for what little they had in way of clothing ran about in the streets, swearing at one another and swinging sticks at one another.  The alleys were a dangerous place for anyone not wanting to get unceremoniously showered with human waste being thrown from a window.  It was too crowded for a horse to be able to maneuver the streets, so the city guard wound their way around the perimeter of Flea Bottom and the tops of buildings themselves to ensure a riot would not start.

Being a bird of Lord Varys in Flea Bottom did not allow much in the way of comfort, lest you look too suspicious.  But at least it had the advantage of knowledge and knowing how to read and write.  That, at least, was an extreme benefit.

The bird that was to carry the final message to the woman and her son was a middle-aged man, considered to be rather old in the way of Flea Bottom.  He had a few missing teeth, not at all uncommon, and thin, wispy hair that barely covered the top of his bony head.

He reached the door of the designated place and rapped his bony knuckles three times against the wood.  A young boy with shaggy black hair sticking up at all ends and bright blue eyes answered, cracking the door and sticking his head through the crack to see who had knocked.  When the boy's eyes landed on the messenger and the letter in his hands, he stepped back and pulled the door open far enough for the man to enter.

It was a rather small hovel, lacking in all the luxuries someone of higher standing might have been able to afford.  But it was to be expected, after all, for a single room home in Flea Bottom.  There was a small cook pit set into the far wall, a table and a single bench pushed up against the wall next to it.  Old rushes were on the eternally dusty floor, an attempt to make the home comfortable.  The single bed was the major form of furniture within the home and a frail woman was lying within it, covered by the worn blankets.

Her light brown hair, once full and lush, was thin and dull, draped over a single shoulder.  Her brown eyes were rather dull as well, sunken into her flesh that had seemed to become even paler than it already had been.  The wasting sickness had not been kind to the poor woman, who had been quite beautiful only moons before.

The messenger bowed his head to the woman, noticing the way the boy skirted around him.  Closing the door, the boy kept close to the wall as he crawled into the bed with his mother.  "I was wondering when you would bring me another message," she said simply.  Her voice was rasping and dry, it sounded as though she had not had anything to drink in too long.  She coughed as though the effort of speaking was too much for her and, tucking her son close to her by draping a too-thin arm over his shoulders, nodded for him to continue on with the reading.

Breaking the indiscriminate seal upon the parchment, he unfolded the concise letter.  Angling the paper towards the cook pit, he let his vision adjust to the lighting before clearing his throat to begin reading the elegant writing

"' _I have received word back from my friends in the North.  They have agreed to house the boy with them.  He will be well cared for, they assured me.  They know of who he is and where he comes from.  There is a trading caravan heading to the North in a few days that has promised him safe passage to the North and my friends.  I will send someone to fetch the boy and take him to the caravan in the early hours of morning, three days hence._

_May the Seven protect you and your son._

_\- R_ '"

The messenger turned towards the pit and dropped the letter into the flames, watching as the parchment curled and turned black at the edges.  The fire devoured the paper quickly and without any decorum other than the smell of paper wafting from the coals.  When the man turned back to the woman, she had tears in her eyes and was holding her son close to her chest, lips pressed into his full head of raven-coloured hair.

The boy was staring at him with knowing eyes, unshed tears making them appear an almost blindingly colour of blue.  They held anger, sadness, and a desperate love for his mother within them and something about it made the messenger's skin crawl.  This boy was far more like his father than he was even aware of.

"Give my thanks and agreement to the arrangements," the woman said simply.  Nodding, the messenger let himself out of the house, feeling the gaze of the seven year old boy on him as he closed the door behind him.  A deep sigh left the man's lips and he ran a hand over his face.  He had not expected to run such an errand for the Spider, but as a messenger bird, it was his duty.

With a shake of his head, the messenger sighed and walked down the street, away from the hovel and the boy with the angry eyes.

He did not walk far before a portly man, wrapped up in the old grey robes of a Septon and a mop of lank hair and the patchy shadow of a new beard joined him.  "Interesting games the Lords and Ladies play, especially when it is with one so low, do you not agree?" the Septon asked.  The messenger looked to the side at the man, searching for something recognizable about him.  Finding nothing, a light panic tightened within his chest.

"It is not my job to judge the actions of others, Brother," the messenger countered.   To that, the Septon nodded his head.

"No, no, of course it is not.  Come with me, my son," the Septon said, reaching a short-fingered hand out to pull on the messenger's dirty tunic.  The Septon led him deep into a gap between buildings, where the stink of human waste burned the messenger's nose and made his eyes water.

The messenger was pushed up against the wall of one of the buildings, the blue sky above offering the only hope of cleanliness and light in the disgusting shadows of Flea Bottom.  "It would be a shame if someone were to learn of your mission today, my boy," the sharp voice of the Spider came from the Septon's mouth and it was then that the messenger noticed the way his intelligent eyes glinted dangerously.

The tightness in his chest only grew tighter as the Spider flicked a knife out from its hiding place within his Septon's robes.  "Pity that the life of a single bird is not one so drastic as an entire kingdom," the Spider said simply before he reached up and cut a line through the messenger's neck.  He stepped back from the messenger, away from the mess of lifeblood that was making its way through the slice.

"I thank you for your service."  With a nod of his head, the Spider turned and moved back through the alley and into the sun of King's Landing.  The messenger slid down the wall, into the mess of shit and piss.  Once a bird, the man was no better than a pig at slaughter now.


	2. Gendry

Gendry couldn't remember when, exactly, his mother fell sick.  She had been fine only moons ago, and now she was wasting away before his eyes.  It was far too much for the seven year old to handle, but he bore the brunt of taking care of her on his shoulders.

When the ragged men first started to come with messages from the strange man Gendry only knew as 'R', he had wondered what his mother had written.  As four more messages followed and began to grow more in detail about planning things about a boy and the life of Gendry's mother, he had started asking about who the boy was they were talking about and why his mother got sad after the men left.

This last letter, though…  He knew.  Three days ago, his mother had held him in her arms and promised he would be well taken care of and not to fret, for everything would be fine.  He knew that the boy the scraggly man was talking about was him.  How could he not when the letter so very specifically talked about his mother's son?  He was angry, of course.  How could he not be?  A little boy, being sent North to the Seven knew where…

"Mama, you're comin' with me, right?" he had asked a few hours after the man had left.  His mother had remained silent since his departure, holding Gendry close so he could hear her weak heart beat.  She had pressed kisses into his hair over and over, and he could feel her shake as she cried.  He had pulled away when she remained silent after he'd asked his question.  Her eyes were sad, filled with tears that were streaming down her thin, bony cheeks.

"No…  No, my love," she had coughed.  A sad smile stretched across her face and Gendry felt his lower lip tremble.  "Now, now, sweetling.  You must be strong, for Mama.  Understand?"  Her speech was interrupted by the coughing that had become prevalent recently.  It was hard for him to sleep through the night because of her random outbursts of coughing.  A frail hand went to his cheek, cupping it, and he had leaned against her touch.

Gendry was still angry, of course.  He seethed with it, and his friends that he usually ran around with during the day when his mother was at work had taken notice.  It wasn't his fault, of course.  He wasn't the one being forced to go North to live with someone he didn't even know.  As a seven year old, he understood that his mother was sick, but did not understand why he needed to live with someone else.

Now, they sat together in their small home, waiting for the man who would take him to meet with the caravan.  She hadn't been able to get out of bed for nearly a fortnight, but she had made a decisive effort to get out of bed and dress herself in one of her finer garments for the departure of her son.

They sat on the bench in silence, her arm draped over him as he supported the majority of her weight.  There was a small knapsack that held his few belongings, which included the few items of worn clothing his mother had mended for him, as well as one of the two necklaces she wore on rare and special occasions.  He had fought against her when she said she was giving it to him to remember her by, but she had ultimately won.

A yawn tore through the boy's mouth as he fought to keep his eyes open, wishing that he could go back to sleep and wake up and have everything, including his mother's sickness, be just a bad dream.  When the customary knock came upon the door, Gendry took a deep breath and stiffly rose to his feet when his mother nudged his shoulder.

The man on the other side of the door had a kind smile in his wide, fat face that reached his bright green eyes, though Gendry only glared at him and stepped back into the house, turning his back on the man to return to his mother.  She smiled and thanked him for coming, thanked him for his service and his help.  Gendry merely stewed in his own anger and loathing for the man taking him away from his beloved mother.

The man replied with some kind words for her, hoping for her recovery.  But Gendry's mother had explained to him that, the entire reason he was being sent away, was because she wasn't going to be able to get better.

Gendry's mother bent, with some difficulty, down to his level to wrap him up in her arms and pull him in a tight hug.  "You be a good boy, Gendry.  Do not forget your courtesies and…" she was crying now.  The young boy snapped his eyes shut and hung on for dear life to the last shred of hope that this was all just some terrible, elaborate dream.  But no, the anger and hatred he felt for 'R' that was flowing through his body was too real and intense for it to be all a dream.

"We should go before the caravan leaves," the man said.  With one last squeeze, with what was probably all of her strength, Gendry's mother leaned away from her son, a sad smile upon her lips and tears streaming down her face.  While his lip trembled, he bit the inside of his cheek and turned his glare to the dirty floor of his home to ignore the ripping pain inside his chest and to keep tears from coming.

"Seven protect you, my dear," the man said as he lifted Gendry's pack from the floor and laid a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder.  He shrugged out of the touch, hating the way with which the man assumed familiarity with him.  Gendry hated the man, with all that he could muster and all that he understood of hatred.

"And may they protect you and my son," his mother echoed, bowing her head in thanks.  Gendry fought the urge to scoff.  The Seven had never answered any of his prayers to protect and give health back to his mother.  The Seven could go bugger themselves to all their Seven Hells for all he cared…

When the man closed the door of his home behind them, Gendry suddenly felt very guilty that he did not say goodbye to his mother himself.  Taking a step towards the door, hand outstretched to open and bid his mother goodbye, only caused the man to clear his throat and tell him they needed to be on their way.  He clenched his jaw and felt tears well up in his eyes from the anger and sadness he felt in him when he turned around and began walking down to the City Gates.  He glared at the dirty, shit-ridden streets as he walked beside the fat man, hands clenched into fists and brows furrowed into a scowl.

"…I've never much liked Flea Bottom myself," the fat man was saying.  Gendry hadn't been paying attention to his words prior but it was only when he insulted the only home he had that he got angry.  "It's far too dirty, but I suppose there is a sort of…charm held here."  The man was looking around at the buildings around them, a fond smile upon his thin lips.  Gendry remained silent, not wanting to speak about anything with whom he viewed as his enemy.

"The North, though," the man continued, "the North has a sort of…wild and frigid beauty.  Honestly, I much prefer the heat and human stink of King's Landing to the North, but I suppose all places hold their beauties somewhere."  Gendry didn't know why the  man was saying these things, but it did nothing to quell his anger.

He stayed silent while the fat man kept walking and talking, musing about the ways of the world and different places between Flea Bottom and the North.  He was sure to stay very vague as to which city or town in the North Gendry would be travelling to, which only got more and more annoying the seven year old than anything.

By the time they'd reached the City Gates and were allowed outside, as "members of one of the trade caravans outside the gates" as the fat man had explained to the City Guard, Gendry could not wait to get away from the man's useless chattering.  If he thought it was making the boy feel better about being forced away from his home and his sick mother, he was terribly wrong.

The caravan, if it could truly be called that, was rather small.  There were four carts clustered together, with people moving between them and preparing for their departure, loading things into the carts and fitting horses to the carts.  A few sell-swords were spread around the encampment, hands on their swords as they glared over at the fat man and Gendry when they approached.

An older man, with silver streaking through his dark brown hair and beard and kindly brown eyes, came around from one of the back of the carts.  "Ah!  Yer here!  Good, good," the older man nodded to himself.  He was rather thin, though not near so thin as the man who had come to give the final message to his mother three days prior.  The merchant had a kindly face that was wrinkled from the sun and old age.

"What's yer name, boy?" he asked.  The fat man answered for him, sweeping a hand to the side and guiding the merchant to the side, leaving Gendry standing just off the side of the road.  The boy watched them go and speak in hushed whispers quietly, brow still furrowed in his anger.  He wondered, for a brief moment, if he would be able to get away with running from the fat man and the caravan and making his way back to his home and his mother.

Granted, he knew that they would find him eventually.  Where else would, or could, he go?

Sighing, Gendry turned his attentions towards the rest of the people bustling around the carts and caravan, getting ready to leave King's Landing.  The caravan consisted of mostly men, and what Gendry assumed were their sons, but there were a couple of women, who eyed him curiously as they went about their work.

Two younger men were packing things into the back of the cart the old merchant had been behind.  They were far older than Gendry, though the youngest could not have been less than six-and-ten, and they both had the same dark brown hair and brown eyes as the older merchant.

Gendry felt, again, the discomfort that leaving his home behind.  It was an alien concept to him, that he would have to up and leave the place that he had called home and his mother behind.  But here he was, anger and resentment fueling him.  He hadn't slept much lately, but any sense of tiredness or desire to sleep had been overrun by his anger.

It was not long before the fat man and the older merchant returned from their secluded talk.  There was a kind smile on both of their faces, but Gendry only leveled his glare at them in return.  He was not in the mood for their kind smiles or words.  They did not change the fact that he was being forced from his home and his mother was doing nothing to end it.  Not that he was angry with her, exactly.  He was just…angry in general, at everyone that had a hand in this entire situation, the kindly older merchant included.

Gendry wondered just how much the merchant knew of the situation at hand, and if there was anything the merchant could tell the boy to further his understanding.  He doubted it, though.  'R' was rather secretive in his dealings with Gendry's mother, always sending a different messenger and taking extra precautions with hiding the nature of the letters to her.

The fat man handed the merchant Gendry's pack with his meager belongings and then waved goodbye to the boy, entrusting him into the care of those in the caravan.  Gendry's bright blue eyes glared at the man's back as he walked away, up the King's Road back up to the city, until the merchant approached him and tore his attention away.  Gendry very much wished that he were the one leaving the caravan behind and returning to King's Landing.

"Gendry, m'boy!  Come, we best be off if we're to get you and these goods to the North in time," the merchant said.  Gendry nodded numbly, turning on his heel away from the great red walls of King's Landing and toward the caravan and it's unfamiliar merchants and sell-swords.

"The name is Preston, boy," the merchant introduced himself when they reached the back of the cart.  "These here are my sons, Daemon and Rickard."  The old man pointed at each son in turn, indicating just who was who as they gave a nod in turn.  Gendry nodded his understanding, but kept his mouth shut and his eyes cast down towards the ground.  "I'll introduce you to the others when we stop for the night," he explained, moving his head to indicate the rest of the members of the caravan.

The boy stood to the side as Preston and his sons re-arranged a few things in the cart and set Gendry's pack towards the back, ensuring it was set apart from whatever it was they were selling and making a small space for him to sit in.  "Quiet one, aren't ye?" Preston asked when he turned back towards Gendry.  "Ah, well, no matter.  Into th' cart with ye, lad.  We've got a long journey ahead o' us."

With that, Gendry was lifted unceremoniously into the small space they had cleared out in the back of the cart.  The side of the cart was open, but otherwise he was surrounded by wooden boxes of supplies.  He clutched his pack and held it to his chest as the merchant and his sons moved around a bit more, speaking with the other members of the caravan before climbing onto the seat of the cart.  Preston sat in the middle while his sons sat on either side of him.

With a flick of the reins, the horses began moving and the cart began moving.  The sudden movement caught the boy off guard and he nearly fell forward.  Preston's cart was at the lead of the caravan as they fell into line, the mercenaries mounted on either side of them.

Gendry stared back at King's Landing as they rolled down the bumpy road, watching it grow smaller and smaller as the sky above lightened and night turned to day.  The young boy could not deny the tears that fell from his eyes as he stared in angry desperation at his shrinking home.  He wiped angrily at his eyes with his fists, ashamed of the tears he was shedding but unable to make them stop.


	3. Catelyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, please don't kill me. I know it has been forever since I updated this last, but school and life got in the way and I had a very difficult time writing this chapter. Hence the reason it's rather short and very filler-ish and sucky... On the plus side, it isn't going to take me near as long to get the next chapter up and it should be longer and finished within the week. I'm going to try to keep up with this more and I'm very sorry it took forever to update and you aren't getting a terribly good one after waiting so long... You have my apologies...

Catelyn Stark was, once again, quite angry with her husband. It was not often that she had grown truly angry with him, not but once in their eight years of marriage. Not since he returned from Robert's war with Jon Snow, his bastard son, in tow to be raised alongside his true-born son. While it had been eight years, she did not, and could not, forgive him that.

And now, he was bringing another bastard into her home.

Granted, it was Robert Baratheon's bastard and not another Stark bastard, but she claimed it stung all the same. To have bastards in her home, living and learning with her true, beloved children… The only thing that made her less angry about this second bastard of Winterfell, was the fact that it was not another of her husband's base-born children.

When Ned had told her a month ago the boy would be coming to live and serve in Winterfell at the behest of Jon Arryn, she had been furious. Now, her anger had simmered, but it was still there in the slightest. Still, she supposed the knowledge that he had fathered no more than the one bastard should have calmed her and made her feel better. She even knew that many of their serving staff were bastards themselves, and she should not get so angry. But, for whatever reason, she was.

Her husband had reassured her the boy did not know who his father was and he would not expect to be given more than simple work in the castle. And still she was angry with him.

"He will not be raised by us, Ned. He will not be raised alongside our children," she had told him, voice hard as steel. Her husband had nodded in agreement, and then cooled her anger with his mouth.

The caravan had arrived in Winter Town that morning, and now the head merchant of it was bringing the boy into her home. She stood, still as stone, beside her husband in the yard, before the doors into the castle. The boy was scrawny, clearly extremely underfed, and had burning blue eyes that reminded her of a younger Robert Baratheon. His hair was lank from lack of nutrition, but blue-black and shaggy, hanging in his eyes defiantly. He was rather tall for a seven year old, she thought, as Robb was of the same height and a year older than this bastard boy. He would grow to be a large man, that she knew.

The boy's eyes widened and he performed a stiff bow from half-way across the yard. The merchant had a friendly smile on his face and paused beside the boy to bow in turn. "Th' boy's go' better manners than me, I'm afraid," he announced. "Lord and Lady Stark, 'tis my pleasure t' meet ye."

Ned nodded beside her, beckoning the pair forward. The boy watched with wary eyes, clutching onto his ragged pack and hanging behind the merchant just a few steps. He seemed leery of leaving the merchant altogether, but Catelyn could tell he didn't quite trust the older man.

Cat continued to watch the boy as Ned left her side to take a step forward to meet the merchant and the boy. She remained rooted to the spot as the men talked. The boy's eyes fled from Ned to her, back to her husband, and then scattered around the yard of the keep. He seemed skittish, like a wild animal that was prepared to flee at a moment's notice. She wondered if the boy had tried to run back to his mother in King's Landing at any point during the trip.

"Th' lad's a good one, m'lord. Knows 'is manners and e'rything." She heard the merchant saying. Her husband nodded and handed the man his payment for bringing the boy to the North and for his silence. Though, there was never any certainty of silence in the world, not when there was gold concerned. Catelyn only hoped that the story of the bastard boy would not bring shame upon her family or upon that of the King of Westeros. They would need to be careful to keep the boy from any prying eyes who might recognize him as the king's bastard son.

The merchant left, patting the young child on his head. The boy had turned to follow, but after the pat on the head, he looked at the merchant rather disdainfully and remained rooted to his spot. Clutching his bag tighter, he watched as the merchant left.

Ned was the one to step forward and bend to his knee to greet the boy. He seemed shocked that a great lord would kneel to his level and Catelyn couldn't help but think that this boy would certainly not interfere with her family or her children. It was a comforting thought, for all that it was not a terribly pleasant one.

Ned spoke with the boy for a few moments before rising to his feet, beckoning the boy to follow him. His grey gaze found her and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile, though his face remained passive. Cat nodded and allowed her husband and the bastard child to walk back into the castle before her.

As the heavy wooden doors closed after them, she pulled a hand through her hair and then turned to follow them into the castle. Rather than going to the kitchens where she knew her husband was taking the boy, she went upstairs to the nursery to visit her children. She knew that Robb and Jon Snow would be at their lessons for the day, but her other three children would be in the nursery. She desired very much to be surrounded by her children at the moment.

Her fingers trailed the warm stone walls of Winterfell as she walked through the halls. Though she had not grown up in the castle and had, instead, been married away to the second son of Lord Rickard Stark during the reign of the Mad King, she had come to know Winterfell as her home.

Entering the nursery, she found Sansa playing with her dolls on the rushes before the fire. Arya, two years younger than Sansa's five years, was busy tottering around the room, with Old Nan 'chasing' after her. It brought a soft smile to Cat's face. Her joy in the world was her children, there was no denying that.

Her daughters looked up as she closed the heavy door behind her. Sansa abandoned her dolls in favour of walking, slowly like a proper lady, towards her mother, blue eyes bright and shining. Arya had been swooped up by Old Nan, but had turned in the old woman's arms and was grabbing the air with her small fingers. The weight of the world lifted from Cat's shoulders as she bent to give Sansa a hug, the little girl leaning into her.

Old Nan's tired bones seemed to creak as she bent to set Arya down again, letting the three year old wobble over to her, arms still outstretched. Cat held both of her daughters to her in a joint hug, smiling all the while. The old nursemaid turned to leave her alone with her daughters, walking to the crib where Bran, who had just celebrated his first name day, was fussing.

"I hope you girls have behaved," Cat said. Sansa nodded with an honest smile and Arya only grinned in return, giggling slightly.

"We have, Mother," her older daughter assured her in response. Cat smiled and snuggled them to her chest, nodding in assurance.

Relishing in the few moments where her daughters were not fighting over something that only a little girl could get angry with her sister about. By the gods, she loved her two daughters. Arya broke away first, returning to run as fast as she could around the room, looking for things to entertain her or to have a small adventure with.

Sansa returned to her dolls shortly after, sitting on the floor with her the skirts of her simple blue dress spread around her.  Rising to her feet once again, Catelyn Stark walked over to where Bran was, still sitting in crib as Old Nan had gone off to chase Arya around to ensure she did not hurt herself.

Cooing at her youngest child of the brood, she lifted him up from the crib and cradled him to her chest, pressing kisses into his soft dark hair. With Bran close to her chest, swaying back and forth in place, she wondered what strength it would take for a mother to willingly send away her child. Regardless of giving him a better life or not, Catelyn did not think she would be able to go through with doing such a thing. In that respect, at least, she admired Gendry's mother for her strength in doing so.


	4. Gendry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer than I thought it was going to. I apologize... However, the semester is almost over and then I can work on this a bit more often, with any luck~ Thank you all for your comments / kudos and for reading this, it means a lot to me. <3

When his mother had made him leave their home and told him to be a good boy, he had not expected it would be to join the staff at a northern castle of a great lord and lady of Westeros. When he had arrived, the Lord Stark had asked if he understood why his mother had sent him away, to the North.

' _She is very sick, Gendry. Your mother will not make it through the year._ ' Lord Stark had told him sincerely. Gendry did not let himself cry until that night, when he was safely tucked into the bed that he had been granted in the servant's quarters. Though he'd known his mother was sick and there was nothing to be done about her, the information hurt no less.

The boy had settled into the castle rather quickly, working in the kitchens. It was a fast-paced life and he had not worked so hard before in his life. Though it kept him busy, and that kept him from becoming over sad. At the end of the day, he got a good meal - far better than the pigeons and old bread his mother could afford - and was tired enough to fall asleep quickly and heavily. It was a good life, he decided. Far better than living in the wastes of King's Landing and Flea Bottom.

By the gods, he did miss his mother, though.

It was on his way from the well back to the castle that he had first made friends with Jon Snow, the Stark bastard. He and Jon had their bastardry in common and that made Gendry like him more. Though, the more that Lady Stark interacted with the boy, only a year older than Gendry himself, the more that Gendry grew wary of the stoic woman.

When Jon was finished with his lessons, he would join Gendry in the kitchens and keep him company while he worked. Sometimes Robb would come along, just as close to his bastard brother as though they were true brothers. Their relationship made Gendry envious, but there was something to be said about the fact that the Stark children, the children of one of the Great Houses of Westeros, did not shy from bastards. Lord Stark was like that, as well.

Whenever Lady Stark saw Jon and Gendry together, whether walking through the courtyard or in the kitchens or hallways, she would glower and turn her nose at them. Though he had heard from Robb that she was a good mother, he could not see it. Perhaps it was the fact that they were bastards. That's what Jon said, anyway. Jon had told Gendry that Robb's mother had never liked him.

"She'd have left me out in the snows, if she'd had her way," Jon had said.

Gendry was peeling potatoes for the evening meal when Jon and Robb approached him from the halls, grins on their faces and laughing wildly. The head cook lifted her head and glared at the boys in scorn, though she kept her mouth shut and instead turned her glare pointedly at Gendry.

The bastard servant could get in trouble, but the sons of the Lord of Winterfell could not.

Ducking his head, the boy flushed and turned his focus again on the potatoes.

"Gendry!" Jon said excitedly, drawing the boy's blue gaze up to his friend. "You'll never guess what!" the excited tone in his voice was echoed by Robb's grin and the shaking of his head, as if agreeing with his base-born brother. Gendry looked up from his potatoes quietly, expectant for his friend to continue on.

"Father said you could join us for our lessons if you wanted!" Robb finished. The younger boy could only gape at the two, his jaw hanging slack and his grip on the paring knife slackening until it clattered to the floor of the kitchen.

"You cannot be serious…"Gendry replied slowly, ignoring the fact that the head cook had stomped over to give him her lecture over how to properly treat knives and the detriments of letting them fall upon the ground. "Surely, your mother doesn't know?" he asked, certain that this was all a joke.

He was a bastard boy and not one of a high house, not like Jon. Though, Lord Stark had shown him a mark of compassion in the last year since he had been brought to Winterfell.

Still. It was far too good to be true.

Jon looked at Robb, who merely shrugged and kept grinning. "Father will deal with her. He says all boys need to learn their letters and the great houses, no matter who their parents are."

"Boys! Out! Now! You may talk later, after Gendry has finished his chores!" the head cook boomed, her voice ringing about the kitchen and causing everyone in the kitchens to pause to look over. Gendry could feel his skin growing hot from embarrassment and bent to pick up his fallen knife.

"Sorry, Cook!" the oldest Stark son said, trying to look apologetic despite the grin on his face. Jon sidled closer to his fellow bastard and nudged him slightly.

"Lessons starts tomorrow morning." Jon was nice like that, being simple and not drawing too much attention to himself. Gendry nodded in response and bit the inside of his cheek to try to distract himself from the sudden heat that seemed to pour out from his skin. As the boys left, Cook shook her head, growling slightly to herself and returned to work.

By the next day, he had convinced himself that Lady Stark would swoop in and end the lessons immediately once she had learned that Gendry had joined the high born lads. She had always given him a wide berth and looked at him with what he identified as dislike when she saw he and Jon together.

The Maester was a kind man, old with a heavy chain hung around his neck. Gendry had never seen a true Maester of a castle with a full chain before coming to Winterfell. And, by the gods, the man was so _old_! The pretty older Stark daughter joined her brothers for lessons in her letters, but then went to sew with her mother and the other girls afterwards. Gendry couldn't look her in the eye while he was being taught his letters at a very slow pace.

Lady Stark was furious when Sansa returned to her after lessons on letters and told her about the southron bastard joining in. He had been sent back down to the kitchens and barred from any other lessons for a week before being allowed to return.

He had trouble with his letters at first, mixing them around and having to focus extra hard on them with his brow furrowed. Sansa giggled at him when he got something wrong or said a word wrong while reading. It made the skin beneath his hair turn pink. Jon and Robb, though, they were patient and didn't laugh at him when he made a mistake. It didn't make him feel any easier about it, though.

Lessons on history and the great houses, however, were interesting to him. Gendry could remember sigils because they were pictures and pictures were easier than letters. He liked learning about the great kings and dragons that had long since died out.

Weeks and months went by like that, spending the first parts of his days in lessons and the second half running about the kitchens on errands until he was too tired to run about anymore. Whenever he was asked to run and grab water from the wells, he would pause outside of the armory and watch the blacksmith hammering away at metal. Something about the heat emanating from the forge and the way the metal sounded when the smith swung that great hammer down onto it set his skin to prickling. It excited him.

"Mikken tells me you like watching him at the forge," Lord Stark told him one day not long after Gendry's ninth name day. Flushing slightly, the boy nodded in response. "If you would like, I can speak with him about taking you on as an apprentice."

The boy's eyes went wide and his jaw hung slack in surprise. "You…you would do that, m'lord?" Gendry asked, in awe of the thought of being able to do what Mikken could at the forge. Lord Stark nodded and smiled fondly at the boy.

"If you would like. It is not a guarantee, but I will see what I can do. I hear you are excelling in your lessons with Jon and Robb." The conversation continued between the two, but Gendry was too busy getting himself excited about learning how to make swords and armor. He didn't just walk back down to the kitchens after being dismissed by Lord Stark, he nearly skipped with a grin on his face.

A week later, Gendry was moved from the kitchens to help in the forge. He was given a bed to sleep in at the back, where Mikken himself lived. He had been told it would be a lot of work for a boy to work in a forge, but he didn't care. Mikken told him he would continue his lessons with his letters in the mornings, but the rest of the days would be spent learning how steel worked and the proper safety measures.

\-----

"Why do you do that?" a small voice sounded from the front of the forge. Gendry's blue eyes moved to find the youngest Stark girl looking up at him curiously as he looked down the blade that Mikken had finished crafting yesterday. Gendry lowered the blade a bit, unsure of himself as the five year old girl looked up at him.

"Mikken told me to look for imperfections," he said simply. The girl's big grey eyes flicked from him to the dagger and then around the forge, hands balling into little fists in her skirts. Gendry blinked, wondering what had brought her out here.

"Your name is Gendry, right?" she asked. She spoke very proper for someone who was only five. Gendry nodded slowly. "I'm Arya," she introduced with a big grin. Gendry couldn't help but to smile back at her, though he was still unsure.

"Arya! There you are!" Robb's voice sounded, much to Gendry's relief, as the eldest Stark son swooped his youngest sister up in his arms. Arya giggled and clung to her brother. "Mother will kill you if you're late for your lessons again, Arya," her brother scolded. The little girl pouted and Gendry smirked, knowing the feeling of not wanting to attend lessons.

Even months after becoming Mikken's apprentice, he still attended his lessons on history and letters, but going made him feel…odd sometimes. Jon made sure that Gendry was not lacking in feeling comfortable throughout the lessons, but Sansa and Robb sometimes made him feel as though they were judging him for his slow progress.

 _"It is a good thing that you are still young, Gendry,"_ Maester Luwin had told him the other week. He was progressing, yes, but slowly.

Gendry watched as Robb turned and walked back toward the castle. Arya looked over his shoulder and waved, a grin splitting her face. It took a moment before Gendry was peering down the blade again, his fingers holding the steel dagger lightly. Mikken returned shortly after the Stark siblings had left, nodding at Gendry.

"That steel look good to you, lad?" Mikken asked and Gendry nodded, setting the dagger down gently upon the work bench. "Good. It should. I've got another sword to make, get the bellows going," Mikken instructed. Gendry nodded and quickly set about the task of working the bellows, heating the forge as his master began selecting the correct steel.

The next morning when Gendry went to his lessons, Arya Stark was already there, looking over the table eagerly as she sat beside her sister and across from her brothers. "Hi Gendry!" she said excitedly. Gendry's brow furrowed slightly as he looked from all four of the Stark children and then to the Maester. He didn't question it when he sat on the other side of Jon and waited for Maester Luwin to delve out their work for the day.

"Mama says you're a bastard, like Jon," Arya said bluntly one morning while they waited for the Maester. Sansa looked at her younger sister aghast, a pale and slim hand covering her hand.

"Arya!" she hissed.

"What?" the little girl asked innocently, turning her gaze to Sansa.

"You shouldn't say things like that! It isn't proper!" the older girl scolded. Gendry stared at his hands and shrugged.

"It's fine," he said softly. He looked up at Arya, his head still bent down. "I am a bastard, 'tis true." Despite his admission, an awkward air hung around the desk but Arya didn't pay any heed to it as she got distracted by the books along the walls.

It was a blessing when Maester Luwin came back in and began the lesson. Gendry did not like going back to his lessons after that day. It was not any fault of Arya's, but the ways that Sansa and Robb looked at him seemed to grow more and more demeaning as time passed. At least he still had Jon for a friend, but it wasn't the way it was before Arya had joined them and had stated that fact like it was nothing.

Which, in all honesty, he had even started to believe himself. Soon he stopped going to his lessons altogether and just remained in the forge, away from the Stark children.


End file.
